


Sins

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Grace has a swear jar, and Boyd doesn't approve. Based on a prompt. Birthday present for Joodiff.





	Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



> Happy - belated - birthday to Joodiff. I'm so sorry it couldn't be completed in time, but hopefully it's worth the wait. Thanks are due to missDuncan for proofreading for me. Love and hugs to you both. :) xxx

**Sins**

* * *

Attention locked on the task of writing a cheerful greeting in her granddaughter’s birthday card, Grace only peripherally notices as Boyd reappears in the bedroom. He’s wearing nothing but a towel, she knows, but the reason she knows is from experience, not because she can see him.

Shave, shower, dry off, mutter his way through his male grooming regime; walk to bedroom wrapped in towel, dress. It’s his morning routine, like clockwork. She could probably set her watch by it, if she wanted.

She hears him pause behind her, feels him stare at her.

“What?” she asks, curious in an abstract sort of way as she scrawls a smiley face and several kisses after the obligatory “Lots of love from Grandma and Peter.” The inclusion of his name on the card warms her heart; it’s a statement of his permanency in her life, and her family’s, and it feels good.

“What are you doing?” There’s a fair amount of curiosity in his tone, and a good bit of amusement, too.

“Writing Georgie’s card.”

“In your underwear?”

She can hear the smirk in his words, but Grace ignores it, back to him as she sits at her dressing table and slips the card into its envelope. “Why not?”

“Fair point, but even so…”

The strip of adhesive never tastes good, and Grace grimaces slightly as she presses the flap down, sealing the card inside. Big, flowing letters on the outside for the birthday girl, and then she’s finished. Setting her pen down, Grace gets to her feet and turns. “I suddenly remembered I hadn’t written it, so I thought I’d get it done there and then before forgetting again,” she informs him.

Boyd is grinning at her, hands on his towel-clad hips as he blatantly stares, eyes wandering over her near-naked body. That feels good, too. Age notwithstanding, it’s really rather wonderful just how powerful attraction still is, both when she looks at him, and what she sees in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You have such a terrible short term memory,” he teases. “Just like the blue fish in that film Liam and Arthur like so much.”

Reaching to put the card on the end of the bed, where she’ll see it as they go to leave, she shakes her head, thinking of her three and five-year-old grandsons, and the film in question. “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about,” she replies loftily.

“Of _course_ you don’t. Who lost her car in the staff car park yesterday..? And what time was it I suggested we meet at the restaurant last night?”

Now it’s her turn to put her hands on her hips as she looks over at him. “You told me seven o’clock,” she insists, adamant.

Boyd laughs, shakes his head. “I never!” he protests. “On a Friday night? Come on, Grace. I’m not that dedicated to work. I definitely said half past six.”

Stubborn, she refuses to budge. “I was not late,” she declares.

“Not even fashionably?”

“You said seven; I arrived at seven on the dot.”

The look in his eyes bodes trouble, she thinks. Slow, sly amusement; the kind he finds in deliberately provoking her.

“What?” she demands, when he continues to stare at her, the same smirk on his lips, the same wicked twinkle remaining in his eyes.

He doesn’t move, only reaches out to rest one hand easily on the bedpost. “You,” he murmurs, but adds nothing further.

He really is the most exasperating man she’s ever met, she thinks, as he remains motionless, still watching her. “Explain yourself, or… or kiss me,” she orders, hoping he’ll opt for the former, given the schedule they’re following for the day. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

She should have known he wouldn’t.

She thinks she knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t.

Of course she knew…

His smirk becomes foxier, his eyes taking on a gleam that she knows only too well as he takes a measured, deliberate step towards her, and then suddenly roars in pain and fury as he stubs his toe against the very solid carved wooden frame of the bed.

“Fuck,” he snarls, face creasing up in agony as he hops on one foot, clutching the injured appendage tightly.

“Are you okay?” asks Grace, supressing the urge to laugh, knowing it will only infuriate him further. He wavers slightly, and she bites her lip in response; he is not, and never has been, the most graceful of men.

“Fine,” he grumbles, planting his foot firmly back on the floor. His toes seem to clench a little into the thick fibres of the carpet, but other than that, and the deep frown still embedded in his brow, he appears fine. One of those moments of intense, fleeting pain that very quickly subsides, she thinks.

“Sure?”

“ _I’m fine_!” It’s delivered with considerable emphasis, and a deep, growly tone. One that makes her hold on her smirk falter, albeit only briefly.

“Good, good,” she says, recovering herself. “In that case, you owe the swear jar a pound.”

The look on his face is priceless. “What? Grace..? For God’s sake…”

Enjoying herself, she lifts an eyebrow at his protests, one hand landing on her hip again as she surveys him. “One pound,” she repeats, firmly.

For a moment there is silence, and she can almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he processes her request, the mutinous look in his eyes laced with confusion and disbelief. It fades quickly though, that look, and is replaced by something else. “Fine,” he declares, a hint of irritation mixed with plenty of acceptance, and a lot of what looks rather suspiciously like mischief.

Grace narrows her eyes, well aware that something is about to happen, and that she probably won’t like it. “Fine…” she echoes, letting the word hover in the air between them. She can feel it, whatever _it_ is, and _it_ is screaming trouble with a capital T.

“Yes,” agrees Boyd, “fine.” He gives her an open, incredibly cheerful grin, and then nods at her. “I’ll pay a quid into the swear jar, and you can pay one into the sin tin.”

“The what?” Completely flummoxed, Grace just knows she isn’t going to approve of whatever it is he’s about to come out with. He’s got _that_ look on his face, the little boy smugness that tells her he’s just come up with something that he thinks is hilarious, and that he thoroughly expects her to completely disapprove of, but doesn’t care anyway.

“It’s just like the swear jar, but you pay a fine when you do something naughty.”

“Something naughty,” she murmurs, now entirely positive that they’re rapidly heading in a direction that’s going to lead her into a lot of trouble.

She’s right, and he proves it as he says, “Absolutely, and if you think back to last night, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that what you did to me after I turned the lights out was very, _very_ naughty.”

Oh.

Well, he has a point, she concedes to herself, and if that’s the way he wants to play it…

“I didn’t hear any complaints at the time,” she points out dryly, mind inadvertently taking her back to the alleged naughtiness.

“That’s not the point,” he counters. “It’s still a sin, and in some parts of the world it could get you into a whole lot of trouble. Pay up, Grace.”

“Okay,” she agrees, smiling sweetly at him.

It’s too easy, and he knows it. She can see it in the twitch of his eyebrows as he steps closer still, deliberately towering over her and staring down, hands resting firmly on his hips once again.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve suddenly got the upper hand?” he asks, tone dropping much lower.

“Because you’re an intelligent man,” she suggests, allowing no trace of her amusement to break through. Instead she gives him a long, doe-eyed look. The kind that’s absolutely guaranteed to catch his attention, and hold it.

It works. Spectacularly.

The atmosphere is changing, just as she wanted, and Grace has no intention of arguing with him, not when his eyes are darkening with edgy desire and she can feel the heat radiating from his body as he takes another step closer, crowding straight in to her personal space. He really does tower over her when he’s so close, and she likes it. A lot.

“You’re a very naughty girl, Grace,” he says, tone husky, roughened.

Not quite sure what, specifically, he’s referring to, Grace simply shrugs, superbly nonchalant. “I know.” Through lowered lashes, she looks up at him, well aware of the effect the subtle repositioning of her posture is having on her cleavage. And his attention span. “I thought you liked it, though…”

He does. He _definitely_ does…

There haven’t been any grand gestures; no pointed, set up, deep conversations to establish the direction on their future. Only them, together, falling a little bit more in love and in sync every day, their lives slowly, gradually aligning themselves.

No big changes, no expectations.

Only acceptance and patience, and a lot of let’s-see-what-happens. From both of them.

And it’s worked. Slowly, surely, steadily, they have learned about each other, become closer. Blended into each other’s lives. Become remarkably happy and content.

No pressure, no expectations. Only a quiet, understated but steadily strengthening love.

It’s nothing like what she expected.

Nothing at all.

“Nice lace, Grace,” he murmurs throatily, a finger tracing down the length of her bra strap, the tip slipping beneath that very lace he’s gazing at with the sort of utterly absorbed focus she’s becoming very well acquainted with. He follows the line of the lace down across her breast, his nail an unusual but highly stimulating sensation as it tracks across her skin.

She watches in fascination as he lowers his head, leans down to kiss her, concentration entirely fixed on her. It’s soft and measured at first, that opening kiss, but very quickly the pressure of his lips against hers dissolves into something more, something that has her winding her arms around his neck and opening her mouth to him as his tongue snakes out, looking for her own. How long it lasts, she doesn’t know. Couldn’t even guess, she’s so caught up in the clean scent of him, the warm heat of him, the intoxicating taste of him.

Breathing heavier than it was however long before, they pull apart, and Grace stares up at him, wondering where they are going, whether he will decree that they hurry to finish dressing and readying themselves for her granddaughter’s birthday party. If he does, she decides, she will jump on him. She’s gone beyond her usual patience now, far beyond it, and if he’s about to be contrary, she will use every tactic in her considerable arsenal to tempt, persuade, or simply ensnare him into giving her what she wants.

He isn’t, and she doesn’t have to, it seems.

Not when his eyes seem to burn as he gazes as her, as he repeats himself, voice dropping even deeper, even lower, “Nice lace...”

Not when his palm reaches for that lace, covering her breast and beginning to massage, squeezing just enough to make her moan softly as her eyes fall halfway closed and she shivers in satisfaction and anticipation.

Not when she can see for herself that his towel is doing very little to disguise the fact that his cock is steadily heading for rock hard and ready for action.

He’s left something unspoken, and she’s always been the curious type. The bold and daring type. “But?” she asks.

Boyd grins, and it’s a pure, honest and absolutely delighted sort of grin. He likes that she picks up on the things he doesn’t say, that she challenges him, pushes him, provokes him, and she knows it. Often it’s not, but this time his answer is simple; head low, breath grazing her ear, he whispers a throaty, “but I like you better out of it.”

Grace kisses his neck, trails her tongue up towards his own ear, nips the lobe. Answers with a sultry, provocative, “I know you do.”

It’s the only cue he needs, and then her bra is gone in seconds, leaving him to gleefully play with her uncovered flesh. She likes it a lot, and he knows it. Just as she knows how endlessly deep his fascination with her cleavage runs. In some ways, he’s incredibly predictable.

In others, not so much.

She expects to be tugged backwards to the bed, and she expects to feel his fingers slide down her hip and disappear beneath the elastic of her equally lacy knickers. She expects his towel to vanish and Boyd to groan with pleasure as she reaches out in the wake of its disappearance and wreaks havoc on him and his senses.

None of those things happen.

Instead she finds herself pulled towards him, feels his hands roam over her back as he kisses her, his lips claiming hers over and over again until she’s breathless and heady with the rush of pleasure. She’s a little unsteady and a lot dazed when his hands finally edge lower, gripping her hips and pulling her tighter to his body, as he grinds against her, showing off just how hard he is, how ready he is.

“Umm…” she groans, the words thick and difficult to form in her hazy state. “I want you, Peter.”

He isn’t listening. Either that, or he’s ignoring her, because instead of taking her to the bed, he pushes the lacy scrap of material down her legs as he guides her backwards. Grace is confused, until she feels the solid weight of her dressing table behind her, until he half sits, half leans her against it and then drops to his knees, gently easing her legs apart whilst treating her to a wicked grin that she knows all too well. She adores that grin; she really, really adores it.

Sometimes he is dreadful tease, taking his time to push her into an almost-but-not-quite-there state of writhing and begging, and then holding her there for as long as he damn well pleases. Not today. Today his impatience is showing though, loud and clear.

She likes that, too. And she likes far more that his impatience never, ever overshadows his ability and his dedication to the task at hand. This is fast and impulsive and out of the blue, but it is still exquisite, still desperately, achingly good.

As he licks and nips and nibbles and sucks, deliberately using the rasp of his beard to tease and arouse, her fingers clench a tight, sweaty grip on the edge of the dressing table and her legs tremble and shake, threatening to give way. A long, heavy moan escapes her lips as he slips two fingers inside her, the slow, deliberate movements quite maddening as he lets the intense sensations build but stubbornly refuses to let her fall over the edge.

Grace curses at him, threatens him, begs him to finish it, pleads with him not to stop. She wants it to end, and she doesn’t. She wants – really wants – to feel him inside her, hot and hard and powerful.

“Peter, please…” she groans, and is almost startled by just how raw her voice sounds, just how covetousness her tone is.

Boyd looks up at her, and she just has time to register the blazing inferno in his eyes before he’s on his feet again and then so is she. She’s off them just as quickly though, as soon as her back hits the wall and he lifts her up, and she wastes no time in wrapping her legs around his waist as he angles himself carefully before sliding deep, deep inside her.

Where the towel has disappeared to, she doesn’t bother thinking about. No, there’s only him, big and strong and powerful; slick with heat and sweat as he bears her weight and plunges into her, hard and fast, his breathing ragged as they chase that elusive prize together.

Grace clutches at his shoulder with one hand, relishing the feel of the thick, solid muscle she finds there, and buries the fingers of her other hand in his hair, tugging him in impatiently for a kiss that is almost bruising in its desperate nature as it goes on and on and on. Boyd breaks away, bites her neck with just enough force to make her gasp his name and swear softly as she digs her nails into his skin, revelling in the erotic sound that breaks from him. He grins at her for a second, and it’s a mad, carnal thing that sends waves of shivers down her spine.

“Fuck, Grace…” he gasps, as she tightens her legs around him, rolling her hips to get just such a reaction from him.

She knows _exactly_ what he means. Feels the catch in his pace, the changing, building pleasure. Answers with a high-pitched, desperate, “Peter…”

Everything has become very small and narrow – her focus losing track of anything that isn’t her and him and what they have between them in this moment. It’s flawless and intense, and she clings to all of it, to every second of it. Kisses him again, but this time without the roughness. Hot and open-mouthed, but sensual and affectionate, too. Boyd falters, chokes as they breathe and she frames his face with her hands, gazes straight into his eyes with nothing but want and need and love.

Her skin is flushed, her legs are trembling, and Grace knows she’s close, so very close. Voice roughened by passion, desire, she tells him, “Look at what you do to me, Peter. Look at what you make me feel.”

Boyd growls, his response unintelligible, but there is fierce masculine pride in his eyes, and a lot of the same love that she feels radiating through her. “Finish it for me, handsome,” she orders. “Make me feel it.”

He does, and oh God is it good as he somehow thrusts harder and deeper, as he somehow frees a hand to play with her breast, fingers expertly tweaking the nipple, palm kneading the fullness of the flesh. His head falls forward, his lips and teeth and tongue finding her neck, and she hears a litany of erotic, emotionally charged words flooding into her skull. Her hands are roaming his back, nails scratching his skin, fingers cramping into the muscle and it’s all too much.

She comes violently, screams his name into the stillness of the room around her, feels him clutch desperately at her as he loses his pace, bucks frantically inside her, and it is glorious. Absolutely, incredibly glorious. Distantly she feels him stagger away from the wall, his arms wound firmly around her; feels him collapse onto the bed, taking her with him. Feels the weight of his body and the blanket as he wraps himself around her, somehow managing to cover them both.

Utterly lost in her blissful dreamlike state, Grace clings to him and drifts. For her, it is a perfect moment.

They doze, and for quite a while she thinks, as she eventually hazily comes back to herself, the world muzzy and far away. Boyd moves first, and Grace cries out very softly in protest. He’s so warm and comfortable and big, and tucked into him, tangled with him, she feels loved, secure, protected. Utterly serene.

Gentle lips trace her temple, through her hair; idle fingertips play with the curve of her ear.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, and she knows he absolutely believes it. “I adore you, Grace.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and smiles at him, tranquil and so, so satisfied at the cocktail of delightful chemicals racing around in her bloodstream. Stretching slowly, suggestively against him, she finds his lips and lets her own linger there with a tenderness he effortlessly matches.

“There’s a party we have to get to,” he reminds her, the regret in his eyes clear as he pulls away slightly.

Grace shakes her head, eyes the clock, and then trails her fingers down his body beneath the blanket. “No, there are fifteen rowdy children running riot at the adventure park. The real party doesn’t start until later. We have plenty of time…”

Boyd watches her, expression remarkably steady, given where her hand is now. “I see,” he nods, gravely. “Grace?”

“Yes?” She arches against him, deliberately provocative. Nibbles that incredibly sensitive spot where his neck meets his shoulders. Grins in triumph when he rolls her beneath him, peels the blanket away and lowers his head, captures her nipple between his lips and sucks, teasing it back into a hard point as his palm slides further down, fingers questing eagerly.

Hazel eyes, intense and seductive, appear in front of her own; hold her spellbound as he touches her, as she hisses and mews with pleasure.

Boyd’s lips move, and it takes Grace real effort to follow his words as he speaks. “How much are my sins going to cost me?”


End file.
